


baroque romance

by havisham



Category: Original Work
Genre: Banter, Betrayal, Character Death, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crimes & Criminals, Doomed Relationship, M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 19:51:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17987540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: The one very good thing about being the undesired bastard son of a pope was that no one truly expected you to put aside your preferences for the sake of blood and family. Giovanni felt no particular guilt in desiring Aristide or seducing him -- really it didn't matter who, between them, actually did the seducing -- just that it was done, and magnificently so.





	baroque romance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



“A beautiful night, wouldn’t you say?” 

Giovanni looked out at the balcony and saw a black shape, imposing itself between the curtain and the moonlight. He held a wickedly sharp knife in his hand. Despite his opening words, it did not seem like he was there to exchange pleasantries. 

Nonetheless, Giovanni agreed. “It is a beautiful night. But it will become less so if you happen to kill me.” 

“But all men who live are doomed to die,” said the man, who pushed aside the curtain. He was striking in every way -- dressed in black, the mask he wore did little to obscure the beauty of his features or the color of his eyes, like chips of ice. “That’s what your father says, anyway.” 

“My father is very fond of cliches.” 

“So he is. It’s too bad, then, that he is not so fond of _you_.” 

The man attacked and Giovanni sighed. He was getting tired of all of these assassination attempts. If his father wanted to talk to him, he could come and see him like an ordinary man. 

A few minutes later, the assassin was bleeding all over Giovanni’s marble floor, looking pale underneath his mask. Giovanni took it off him and marveled. “Really! You must be one of the Duke’s men. He always picks them more for looks than ability. Not that either would've helped you.” 

“They didn't tell me you were so -- skilled.” 

“Mm. Yes, well, I have to be. My father’s sent killers after me every week since I was fifteen and he became a cardinal. Can't be so very holy if he's got a bastard son with foreign blood in his veins, can he? Now, you have two choices. You can choose to leave here, tell the Duke that you failed, or you can have me kill you. I don't recommend the second option. It's high summer already and I won't be able to move your body until tomorrow and your stench might attract vermin. It would be a waste in all the senses of the word.” 

“So the choice is to die here or die there,” said the assassin, spreading out his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I can't say I'm fond of either option.” 

“Life is but a dreary continuum of choices such as these -- or so my tutor used to tell me. He was learned in all the latest philosophies.” 

The assassin pretended to think. Giovanni saw him eying the sword hung above him. He was thinking that if he could somehow unbalance Giovanni, grab the sword and run him through, the Duke would certainly reward him far more richly than any other man in his service. 

Giovanni clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You're a quick thinker, but that sword is older than the Papacy. You'll never pull it out of the wall.” 

The man seemed to sag against the wall he was leaning again. “Well, before you kill me, let me have one last request. Please?” 

“I’m listening.” 

“Tell my mother, Julia, who lives in outskirts of the Papacy City, in the corner of Thieves’ Row and Fisherman’s Way that I won’t be able to see her again. And she’ll be able to break the news to my twin brothers -- Elio and Enzo -- they’re apprenticed to a baker in the inner city, though that won’t last long after I’m gone. The Duke vouched for them, you know. And my sister Isotta -- she’s training to be a seamstress -- but that’s gone as well. I’ve a dog in the kennel that you’ll need to see to as well -- poor Bruno will pine for me sadly.” 

“Enough of that,” Giovanni snapped. “What’s your name, anyway?” 

“Aristide,” was the reply. “Tell my mother I have a moon-shaped birthmark on my left buttock, so she knows I’ve really died.” 

“You’re making a lot of fun of someone who can end your wretched life at any moment,” Giovanni pointed out. Aristide pretended to be shocked. 

“Isn’t enough that you’ll kill me? I have to be serious the whole time as well?” 

Giovanni bend down to see how the wound he’d given Aristide was coming along. He really should have been dead by now, his end hastened by all this talking. 

This, however, turned out to be a rather big mistake. 

*

Giovanni woke up with a start. He was no longer in his cozy chambers at the university, but slung over a donkey, in the middle of a rainstorm. The other rider of the donkey, the tricky Aristide, noted his sudden consciousness with a grunt of acknowledgement. 

“... So you weren’t from the Duke after all,” Giovanni said, getting a mouthful of donkey fur for his troubles. Aristide smiled. Even from the odd angle Giovanni was lying on, it was a handsome smile. 

“Perhaps the Duke chose me for my looks and my brains? You shouldn’t underestimate the use of either, young prince.” 

“I’m not a prince.” 

“Your father’s a prince of the church.” 

“And I’m the bastard he’s trying to get rid of. Fathers, eh?” 

Aristide patted him on the head. “Your attempt at the common touch comes a little too late. And it wouldn’t work on me anyway. My father ran away from his responsibilities, he didn’t try to kill them.” 

“Oh, pardon me,” Giovanni said. “I’m sorry my father’s worse than yours.” 

“Once again, I doubt your sincerity.” 

He pulled Giovanni up and whispered into his ear, “If you behave, I’ll let you ride like a normal man, and not carry you like a sack of grain.” 

“It’s a hundred miles from the Papal City from here. Are you confident that you’ll have me at the end of it?” 

“One way or another,” Aristide replied confidently.

*

Once the rains grew too heavy, they took shelter in an abandoned hut near the road. Giovanni tried to think. It was difficult, his mind was still cloudy from when Aristide had hit him. It was clear, anyway, that Aristide had been ordered to kidnap him for the Duke rather than kill him for the Pope. Perhaps the Duke (mistakenly) thought the Pope would pay a generous ransom for him? 

“You know,” he told Aristide as soon as the man had come in from seeing to their donkey. “My father won’t send the Duke a penny in ransom. I’ve told you that he’s tried to kill me many times. It doesn’t matter to him what happens to me.” 

“You’re his blood,” Aristide said. “Even if you’re useless to him, you’re useful to his enemies. He’ll pay the ransom.” 

“Then why take me to the Duke? Claim the ransom for yourself!” 

“My loyalty can’t be bought like that.” 

“How can it?” It was a sincere question. “I hate this -- I hate knowing my life is not my own. I didn’t choose my parents. I’ve tried my best to live freely, even though it’s difficult. Even a pawn has feelings.” 

Aristide dropped a heavy horse blanket on top of Giovanni. “It’s very sad, your life. Go to bed now, please.” 

*

In the middle of the night, Giovanni was awakened by the sound of a small meow. He cracked open an eyelid and saw a very small ginger cat licking at Aristide’s hand. The other man was talking very quietly to the cat, feeding it bits of meat. This went on for a bit until Aristide looked up and caught Giovanni’s eye. He beckoned him closer. 

“Is she yours?” Giovanni asked warily. 

“No, she wandered in here when you were sleeping. Sorry to wake you.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Giovanni replied. He tried to pet the cat, but she hissed and took a swipe at him. 

“Ha! She doesn’t like you,” Aristide said happily. 

“Aristide,” Giovanni muttered. “Please, could you just consider --” 

Aristide looked at him for a moment before he leaned in and pressed a kiss on Giovanni’s mouth. He confessed, “The Duke didn’t send me. Neither did the Pope. I wanted to recruit you myself, My -- organization wants to rob the Year’s End Masquerade and you’re the best hope we have to do it.” 

“You’re a criminal?” Giovanni’s head spun. “What about your brothers, Elio? Enzo? Your sister Isotta?” 

“Pickpockets and a nun,” Aristide said. “Though that nunnery does run an underground lace-making operation. From the distance, they’re ordinary lace, but if you look closer, they’re quite obscene ...” 

“Wait. Your organization …” 

“Perhaps organization is too -- _organized_ a word. An association is better. A group? A gang. We’re a gang.” 

“You’re the leader of the gang?” 

“Of course! I make the best plans.” 

“I cannot agree with that,” Giovanni said. He kissed Aristide back, hard. “I hate you for everything you’ve put me through. I’ll never forgive you.” 

“I understand perfectly,” Aristide replied. “I’ve rarely forgiven myself for anything.” 

*

The rest of their journey was less hurried after that. The cat, who Aristide had named Julia, after his mother, came with them, tucked into one of Aristide’s pouches. She still hissed whenever Giovanni came by, but had stopped trying to cut him into shreds. As they journeyed, Aristide expanded on his plans for the Masquerade and Giovanni’s role within. 

“I’ve never attended any social events within the Papal City,” Giovanni said doubtfully. “My name won’t guarantee your entrance.” 

“Nonsense, one only has to take a look at you to see who you are,” Aristide said confidently. “Even if they didn’t know, I need an aristocratic-looking fool to play the bait, so you’re perfect for that as well.” 

“It sounds like a very poorly planned out scheme with little hope of success,” Giovanni began to say. 

“Do you want me to send you back to the university?” 

Giovanni thought of all the lectures he’d missed giving, all the papers he wasn’t correcting. The absolute mountain of books he wasn’t reading right now. “Is there something in particular you’re hoping to steal?” 

 

“Yes, take a look at this --” Aristide handed him over a small drawing of a woman wearing very ugly necklace with a diamond the size of a hen’s egg. Giovanni whistled, despite himself. 

“Very nice. Do you already have a buyer?” 

Aristide gave him a sly smile. “Perhaps.” 

*

The headquarters of Aristide’s gang was a small inn in the outskirts of the Papal City. As soon as word got out that Aristide had returned, the entire place seemed to fill up with random citizens, all eager to talk to Aristide and tell him their problems. 

Giovanni hung back and observed how easily Aristide seemed to bend people to his will -- it was not terribly evil will, that was true, but Giovanni knew where he’d seen such powerful draw before -- with his father, Francisco. 

Giovanni had only met his father three or four times in his childhood, and hardly more often when he had become a man. The monks that had raised him had made it clear that his father was an important man, but more details, they would not share. Of his mother, Giovanni knew little: only that she had been a daughter of a diplomat from a faraway land, and had fallen in love with his father. Or at least -- in lust. 

Their union had been brief and tumultuous: in the end, his mother and grandfather had been called back to their homeland, and Giovanni had been left behind in his father’s dubious care. The monks received him shortly thereafter. 

In the care of these holy men, Giovanni had grown swiftly and well. He had an idea to join the order that raised when he was of age, but then his father became a cardinal with an eye towards the papacy, and the assassins started coming. 

Giovanni could not stay at the monastery after that. It was poor courtesy to always endanger those who had been kind to him, and so he had adopted a vagabond life until he came to the university and decided to stay on there. 

Someone pressed a hand on Giovanni’s face and he jerked backward, startled. 

“A thousand apologies, young prince,” said Aristide with a faintly mocking smile. “You were standing shock still in the middle of Martha’s inn, and I had to rouse you.” 

“You take too many liberties,” Giovanni said coldly. 

“Forgive me,” Aristide replied, “I try to take as many of those as I can.” 

“Are you so greedy?” 

“Yes.”

Another touch, this time lingering on Giovanni’s cheek. “You ought to rest. We have a big day of planning tomorrow.” 

*

Giovanni’s room overlooked the street and beyond it, the rolling hillsides of the city. If he squinted, he could almost make out the gold dome of the papal palace through the smoky air. He looked away and noticed a stray thread on his sleeve. As he pulled on it, more of his sleeve began to unfray. He could keep going, he though, until he had nothing left. 

There was a gentle knock at the door. Giovanni turned to see the shy face of Isabella, one of Aristide’s associates. She told him that dinner was ready. Dinner at the inn was usually a big pot of stew that had been bubbling in the fireplace all day, along with a hunk of bread and watered wine to wash it down. 

Aristide’s gang was a close-knit group of people whose names Giovanni, if he was wise, would take care to learn, as well as their strengths and weaknesses. Certainly. His father would have done that. But sadly, Giovanni’s attention was focused on Aristide.

There was no room for anyone else. 

*

The necklace they were trying to steal belonged to Carlotta, the Duchess of Anginy. She had rarely been seen in the Papal City until the arrival of Pope Dionysius II (Giovanni’s father) there. Now, she was present every winter to take part in the Masquerade. 

Carlotta’s necklace was an heirloom from her father, who had won it in a dice game with the Sultan of Cairo. The ugliness of the design was only second to the value of the stone that centered it. Aristide said that cost of the diamond was enough to feed everyone in the Thieves’ Quarter for five years at least. 

The rumor was that the Duchess had a weakness for handsome men, blond and preferably none too intelligent. In looks at least, Giovanni was exactly such a young man. 

His role in the heist was the ingenu, the bait from which the trap would be set. 

They spent most of their waking hours reviewing every contingency of the plan and what could go wrong, and what could they do if things did go wrong. Giovanni enjoyed these planning sessions far more than he felt he should. It felt good to be in Aristide’s confidence, listening to his plans and improving them. 

And when that was over, Giovanni would follow him to bed -- 

That was very satisfying as well. 

The one very good thing about being undesired bastard son of a pope was that no one truly expected you to put aside your preferences for the sake of blood and family. Giovanni felt no particular guilt in desiring Aristide or seducing him -- really it didn't matter who, between them, actually did the seducing -- just that it was done, and magnificently so. 

Aristide was truly beautiful. When he had been younger, a now-famous church painter had gotten into his head that Aristide should be the model of several angels that now graced the ceiling of the basilica. Giovanni saw them and thought they were lacking. No amount of tempura on a wall would be able to replicate the curve of Aristide’s cheek when he smiled, or imitate the stormy blue of his eyes when he was angered. 

 

Such was his beauty that Giovanni was tempted -- for the first time in a long time -- to take up his pen to write poetry about him. But he narrowly avoided it -- he no longer could afford to buy paper and ink. 

But still, the temptation remained. However shady Aristide’s dealings and murky his motivations, he was truly beautiful. And if Giovanni was not in love with him, he knew he was certainly in lust. 

*

It was hot inside the hall of the Masquerade, despite the chill wind outside. A storm had come rolling from the sea, the wind stripping off the gaily colored flags that hung outside the palace and batting around the huddled servants and carriage horses like a playful but monstrous cat. Once Giovanni and Aristide got into the hall, they seperated to locate the Duchess. 

Giovanni found her near a splashing fountain, contemplating the designs on her fan. She glanced at him as he approached, before her attention was diverted to a comic scene at the entrance, where a blustering nobleman had failed to gain entry to the festivities. 

“Milady,” Giovanni said, approaching her, raising his voice over the shouts of the nobleman. “A thousand apologies for my boldness, but I couldn't help but be struck by your beauty. I am a humble poet but your face itself is like a sonnet without words.” 

“My,” said Carlotta, “the boys here grow more desperate every year.”

Aristide, dressed as a waiter, came past her with a tray of wines. She picked one and took a delicate sip. But when Giovanni reached for a glass for himself, he was rudely rebuffed, and Aristide swept past. 

“Who are you?” Carlotta asked Giovanni. “You seem familiar.” 

“No one important,” Giovanni assured her. “Just an admirer of your beauty.” 

“No one is so simple as that. You want something, they always do.” 

Giovanni cast his eyes downward and parted his lips a little. “Does it offend you, milady?” 

“Not at all,” Carlotta said, closing her fan with a slap. “Come along, young fellow. You'll do well enough.” 

Moments later, in a dark corner of the hall, Giovanni was trying to get the necklace off the neck of the sleeping countess, but it was stuck on one of the many ribbons in her curly hair. If he yanked at it, he knew that he might wake her and she would no doubt raise the alarm. Sweating copiously, Giovanni worked as quickly as he could. 

Suddenly he heard a small sound behind him. Filled with dread, he turned, only to see Aristide coming up behind him, still dressed as the waiter.

“What's taking so long?” he mouthed at Giovanni. “It’s just a sleeping draught, it won’t harm her.” 

“It's stuck in her hair,” Giovanni replied in a whisper. Aristide sighed and got out his knife -- the same wickedly sharp blade that he'd used to threaten Giovanni not so long ago. He sliced through the ribbons and the necklace tumbled free into Giovanni’s hand. 

Hand in hand, they escaped. Even as they quit the hall, Carlotta awoke from her sudden swoon and raised the alarm. It seemed the whole world was after them -- but this was Aristide’s city. He knew all the ways to escape capture, and so they did. 

*

“It's such an _ugly_ thing. Why does your buyer want it?” Giovanni said, as he twirled the diamond necklace around his finger. Aristide gestured for it, so he gave it over. Aristide pretended to bite into it and threw back his head with an exaggerated grimace. 

“Well, it's not made of sugar crystals, that's for sure.” 

“Ha ha, hilarious joke,” Giovanni replied. “But really, who is the buyer? When are you supposed to hand it over?” 

“Why do you worry over such things when you have someone as glorious as myself in your bed? Where are your priorities?” Aristide dropped himself over Giovanni’s chest. Because he was a bigger man than Giovanni, such an act made Giovanni quite breathless. Still, he was strangely slow, pushing Aristide away. 

“Don't you trust me? This necklace will buy our future, Gio, all of our futures. There'll be no more struggles or humiliation. One little thing -- ugly as it is -- can change so many lives.” 

“Who did you sell it to?” 

Aristide smiled. “I can't tell you.” 

“Why not?” 

Aristide kissed him. He kissed with his whole body -- his whole soul -- and it was easy to get swept away by him. Let him touch whatever part of Giovanni’s body he wanted, part his legs and then lick his thighs and cock. Giovanni buried his hand in Aristide’s dark hair and looked up. Overhead was a canopy of painted stars, the fabric shivering with every breath of air outside. They were holed up in an ancient villa, still richly appointed but utterly derelict. The rumor was that it was haunted. 

“Let me suck you,” Aristide said, his voice hoarse. 

“Aren't you doing that already?” Giovanni said, not bothering to keep the scorn from his voice. 

Aristide placed a careful kiss on Giovanni’s thigh. “You're angry at me for not telling you the truth, but as it happens, I've never told anyone as many truths about myself as I have to you. And it's still not enough.” 

“You're hiding something important.” 

“Do you know how painful it is to expose yourself to someone? You always see so clearly, Giovanni. You've never known what it means to hide.” 

Giovanni pulled Aristide up towards him, until they were face-to-face. 

“Show me,” Giovanni demanded. Aristide looked at him, his eyes wide. “Show me, please. I want to know everything about you. I will still love you, I promise.” 

Giovanni kissed Aristide then, gently. When he touched Aristide’s cheek, his fingers came away wet. 

*

Giovanni woke up the next morning, naked and alone. He would’ve thought himself abandoned, but Aristide’s knife was still in its scabbard. He took it out and brought it with him as he dressed. 

The heat had already fallen heavily across the ancient walls of the villa and the sound of the insects were almost deafening. Giovanni thought he heard the sound of a carriage approaching the villa. Careful not to make a sound, he made his way downstairs, keeping to the shadows. 

There were two voices below -- Aristide’s and another that Giovanni had heard only once or twice, but still recognized. It was his father.

“It was a bother to get away,” drawled the Pope. “If it wasn't for your message, I would’ve sent someone else.” 

“I wanted to be sure of the delivery, your grace. I couldn't bear to think anything going missing.” 

A pause. Then, sounding satisfied, the Pope said, “Excellent as always, Aristide. You are a craftsman yourself, in a way.” 

“Thank you, your grace,” said Aristide softly. 

At last, Giovanni could take no more. His blood was hot and singing in his ears. He hadn't anything on him except Aristide’s dagger, but it was enough. It had to be enough. He swooped down and stabbed the red cloak in front of him and watched as it crumpled to the ground. 

Someone grabbed him by the back of his neck. 

“My son,” said the Pope, each of his words a loathsome caress. “No, my jewel. How noble of the thief Aristide to deliver you to me, as his last act on this earth.” 

There was blood spilling down the front of Aristide’s front, staining the white doublet red. His teeth too were stained with blood. “Giovanni,” he said, “I loved you. It was true. I don't have a dog. That's also true. Forgive me.” 

“A pity,” his father said. “He died without asking for absolution.” 

*

His father had retrieved him, he said, out of a sense of curiosity. Having evaded his assassins for so long, Giovanni had proven his worth. “Perhaps,” his father confided in him as they rode back to the city, “I will give you a place in a monastery near the Papal City. I heard that you like books?” 

Giovanni sat opposite of his father in the carriage, a heavy burden, wrapped in a red cloak, on his lap. “No need,” he said. “I want to learn from you, Father.” 

He put his hand on top of his burden. “All that you can teach me.” 

*

A short while later, white smoke billowed out the from particular chimney, heralding a new pope had been chosen. As Giovanni explained to Aristide, it wasn't a great surprise. 

“In order to teach at the university, you have to be ordained. Of course, I was only a priest, but I can be persuasive when I want to be.” 

He composed himself, readying himself to hear the news. “What should I call myself? Oh, certainly not Dionysus III, have some sense. I suppose John something or other.” 

He looked over to the head of Aristide, enrobed with many jewels and a silks. It was not the same. A skull, however finely decorated, was not the same as a head, and head, however beautiful, was best attached to a living body.

It was not the same. He took out the ugly necklace --what a worthless prize it turned out to be! -- and swung it around his fingers as he waited. 

That old haunted villa, he thought about it often, and the body buried there. Perhaps, one day, he would build a palace there. 

A fine and lovely place, a mausoleum for his love. 

**Author's Note:**

> I really didn't think this would ever be finished, but it was! I really wanted to *clench fist* write this prompt, but time and life kept getting in the way. But in the end, here it is! The worldbuilding is very catch-as-catch-can, and I hope no one minds it. I'm just here for the sadness, and the stabbing. Fun fact: one of the possible original meaning of the word Baroque* (which usually signifies the Western art movement in between the Renaissance and the Rococo -- think Caravaggio and Bernini) -- is "bizarre and uselessly complicated." And I think that's beautiful. 
> 
>  
> 
> *It's also my favorite. Not just because of Cogsworth's joke in _Beauty and the Beast_ but not not because that either.


End file.
